


This Summer's Gonna Hurt

by thejabberwocky



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous Relationships, Depression, F/M, M/M, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwocky/pseuds/thejabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If Adam thought that that Call in Munich had turned his world upside down, then the Letter inside of that envelope nearly demolished it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I'm really, really, really sorry, but for some reason, angsty depression/suicide fic is all I can seem to manage for this fandom/ship. This was originally inspired by this prompt submitted to The Shevine Project: "please please please please could someone write a long-ish fic where Adam’s the one who’s super balanced/chill/rational and Blake is the one who has to sort through his own problems? There are so many fics where Adam breaks down idk I feel like turnabout is fair play." I really don't know what you're okay with, because "problems" is really vague and could be miles away from "severe depression" and "attempted suicide" and "alcoholism" and "recovery" so I just hope you don't hate this, whoever you are, prompt-giver.
> 
> 2\. Yes, I seriously am going to name every fic I write for them after a song lyric or title. Yes, all of my summaries are going to be excerpts of the fic.
> 
> 3\. This fic is going to focus mainly on Blake's recovery and then the development of his relationship with Adam. The "ambiguous relationships" tag applies to their wives, so if that bothers you (I'll get more specific later) then please skip this one.
> 
> 4\. If anyone wants to beta me, please let me know.
> 
> 5\. I'll try to update this fic at least once per week until it's finished, but I'm also taking prompts. Hit me up and I'll see what I can do.

It's the middle of June, and Adam and the guys have one show in Germany left to do before they head off to Italy and he's riding high, feeling good the same way that he always does when he's playing arena after arena to thousands of people screaming for him and his best friends. He misses Behati, but they managed to meet in France for a long weekend, and he misses the Voice crew, but touring is something he hasn't gotten to do enough of and he loves the intoxicating feeling of being this loved, feeling that validation, sharing music, the closest thing to him. Everything is perfect.

Until it isn't—they're in the hotel, still, in Munich, two nights before the show, when Adam gets the Call. He pulls his phone out, grinning, because it's almost 8 pm and that means it's probably Bee, just calling a little bit early, but the childish glee on his face quickly turns to confusion and wariness as he sees Miranda's picture on his display.

They aren't _enemies_ , exactly, they like each other (and Blake) too much for that, but Miranda's always viewed him as a threat, even though he isn't, couldn't be, because Blake wouldn't let that happen, and besides, he has Behati, now. So Adam and Miranda walk this weird, thin line between _I-haven't-done-anything-_ _with-him_ and _I-know-you-haven't-but-I-still-want-you-to-remember-that-I-have-a-shotgun_. For her to call him is weird, it's something that just doesn't happen, despite the way they play up a friendship for the press.

“Hey, Miranda, what's up?” Adam asks, standing in front of the window, shoving his hand down deep in his pocket because he's nervous, he feels like a schoolboy who's done something wrong and is about to get punished for it, feels like Miranda is going to yell at him even though he hasn't done anything _wrong_.

There's silence, and Adam pulls the phone away from his cheek to glance at the screen and, yeah, the call's still going, hasn't dropped, and he clears his throat. “Miranda? You there?”

“Adam,” she says, and her voice is steady but rough and Adam feels something in his stomach clench and churn all at once. “Where are you?”

“Munich,” he says slowly. “The band has a show in a couple days. What's wrong?”

“Can you come?” she asks, and Adam swallows hard. He doesn't know why she's asking, only knows that it must be Important, knows that it must be Bad, and that it must be about Blake.

“Where?” he asks, already shoving his feet into a pair of hotel slippers because putting on his boots would take too long and he needs to get next door _right now_ and tell their tour manager that he's gonna have to skip out on them—doesn't matter why. If Blake needs him, he's gonna be there.

“Tishomingo,” she says slowly, and then she has to clear her throat and take a deep breath and Adam knows what's coming before she says it. “Mercy Hospital.”

And even though Adam knew it was coming, he falls against the wall, feeling the words like a punch in his gut, knocking the wind out of him, making him squeeze his eyes shut because the world spins suddenly, and he knows he's in the hallway and probably shouldn't be having this breakdown in public, but it's not like he can help it, not like he gets to choose, and--

He feels a hand on his arm and hears James asking if he's okay, and he shakes his head and tries to breathe because Miranda's still on the line, silent but breathing hard the same way he is.

“Okay,” he finally croaks. “How—is it bad?”

“Yes,” Miranda tells him, firmly but with that same rough edge to her voice, the one that says that she's barely holding it together, and Adam swallows again hard, and clutches James' arm.

“Okay,” Adam says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. “I'll—I'm coming. As soon as I can.”

“Okay,” she says. “I just thought you should know.”

“Do you know... how long?”

“No,” she says. “Not yet. The doctors are still—they're working on it. On him.”

“Oh,” Adam says, and there are a million questions spinning around in his brain, waiting on the tip of his tongue to be asked (what the hell happened? Is this why he hadn't heard from Blake since the fucking finale? How long has Blake been sick, or whatever's wrong? Was there an accident?) but he can't ask them, because he doesn't want to know the answer, in a way, and he doesn't even think Miranda could handle telling him, not right now.

“I'll be there,” he repeats.

“Okay.”

“Thanks for calling,” Adam tells her, because he know how much it takes out of her to be nice to him sometimes, when all she wants to do is snap at him to get the hell away from her husband.

“He'd want me to,” she says flatly, and that's that. She hangs up on him and Adam leaves the phone against his cheek for a minute, frozen in place but shaking like a leaf.

“Adam?” James says slowly. “What happened?”

“I don't know,” he says, and his voice feels distant, like it's coming through the other end of a tunnel, and Adam knows that if James wasn't right there, he'd have slid straight down to his ass because he thinks he's in shock. “That was Miranda. Blake's—in the hospital, I guess.”

“Shit,” James says. “Is he okay?”

“It didn't sound like it.” Yeah, that's definitely shock, Adam thinks a little giddy, a little hysterical, because otherwise, there is no way in _hell_ he'd be so zen about his best friend possibly dying a fucking ocean away from him.

“ _Shit_ ,” James repeats with feeling. “Okay, you—let's get you back in your room, okay? You can pack, and I'll talk to everybody, and we'll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Adam agrees easily, then frowns at James as his friend helps him walk on wobbly legs back into his hotel room. “I'm sorry. I—it sucks that we'll have to cancel the show.”

“Yeah, but this is more important right now,” James reassures him, and he seems to get that Adam's not really all there in that moment because he's adopted that patient tone that he gets when Adam is barely making sense (and that's usually when he's forgotten his ADHD meds or hasn't gotten the chance to do his yoga for a few days and he's bouncing off the proverbial walls and talking a mile a minute, nonsense flying out of his mouth). “It'll be okay. We'll figure it out.”

Adam knows that James isn't just talking about the tour, but he still nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

He leaves Adam to pack, but Adam just sinks down on the bed and stares at the slippers and tries to hold back the tears that are burning at the back of his eyes all of a sudden.

This can't be happening.

* * *

Adam calls Behati while he's waiting for a connecting flight from New York, and he listens to her babble about her friends and her latest shoot and shopping in Milan for a few minutes before he feels calm enough to talk (and god, he loves her, the way that she knows him, and he knows that she knew the moment she answered her phone that something was wrong, but also that he'd tell her when he could, and she's just so perfect and exactly what he needs in that moment).

“Are _you_ okay?” she asks after a long pause, and Adam makes a noise in the back of his throat, like a strangled sob and a growl and a whine all at once.

He clears his throat, then says, “I'm—it's not me. Miranda called. Blake's in the hospital.”

“Oh, god,” Behati breathes, and she sounds worried and sad and Adam knows that she likes Blake a lot, that they're friendly in the way that he and Miranda could never genuinely manage. “What happened?”

“She didn't say, but Bee--” He chokes and has to wait a minute, squeeze his eyes shut and run a hand roughly through his hair before he can talk again. “It sounds bad. She said I should come.”

“Of course you should,” Behati agrees.

“I'm in New York, now, and there's like an hour until I can get on a flight to Dallas, and then it's another two _fucking_ hours before I can get to Tishomingo,” Adam says frantically.

“It'll be fine, hon,” she assures him, just as James had. “You'll get there. Miranda would call you if something changed, y'know?”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees after a moment. He might've doubted that only a few hours ago, before she'd called him in the first place, but this—it superseded whatever weird tension they had between them.

“Do you want me to come?” she asks.

“Not yet,” Adam answers slowly, even though he really does want her with him when he has to face whatever this is. “Let me find out what the fuck is going on first.”

“Okay,” she says. “Call me when you land. We'll chat on the drive.”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees, grateful for the offer. It seriously is a goddamn _two hour drive_ from Dallas to Tishomingo, and why the fuck did Blake have to choose to live in the middle of _nowhere_ , and he'd go crazy thinking about what might've happened if he had nothing else to occupy his mind while he rode over there. “Thanks, Bee. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she answers unreservedly. “He'll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees with infinitely more desperation than certainty. He doesn't add what he's thinking, doesn't say _because he has to be, because I need him to be_.

* * *

It's going on a full day since Adam got the Call when he finally pulls his rental car into the lot of Tishomingo Mercy Hospital, and he puts it in park and shuts off the engine but wraps his hands back around the wheel, holding on tight, and he hasn't really stopped shaking since he started back in that hallway in Munich, but he needs to buck up, now, and so he takes a deep breath and gets out of the car.

It's a small hospital (because it's in a small ass town in the middle of fucking _nowhere_ Adam rages again, thinking about how difficult it was to get here, how each moment he wasn't on the road or in the air felt like wasted time) and the nurse at the front desk was obviously expecting him, had obviously been warned, because she just stands up and gives him a tight, sympathetic smile.

“His family are on the second floor, in the waiting room on the east side, if you'd like to join them,” she says, and Adam nods, throat too tight to speak, and tries to give her a smile in return. Her smile grows a little pained, and he realizes the expression is probably more like a grimace and lets his expression crumble, staring down at the hideous patterned linoleum while he heads for the elevator.

The nurse wasn't kidding, Adam finds—the whole Shelton clan has gathered. Dorothy and Endy and Endy's husband and her kid and Miranda and a few other people Adam's seen a couple of times before in the pictures Blake's shown him. Dorothy stands immediately when she catches sight of him, and Adam finds himself wrapped in a tight hug, arms full of a teary mother.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she says, and Adam slowly brings his still trembling arms up to hug her back. He knows that she means it, knows that she's always liked him, from the first time they met at the ranch.

“How is he?” Adam asks quietly, and she lets out a shaky breath before pulling back. Her eyes are wet, but she's calm, though Adam doesn't know if that's because things are looking better than they were when Miranda first called or because Dorthoy's always been tough as nails.

“Better, I guess—he isn't critical anymore, they're saying,” she says, and she tries to smile, tries to look hopeful, optimistic, but there's something dark, some kind of shadow over her expression that worries Adam.

“What happened? Miranda didn't say,” Adam asks, and Dorothy nods, running a hand through her hair, her bangs flying off at odd angles. She doesn't seem to care.

“It was—he—it was an accident,” she tells him. “His car, just—it wasn't far, you know, from where Richie...” Dorothy trails off and Adam hugs her again, and she makes a small, pained noise into his shoulder before pulling back, eyes now positively glistening, and excuses herself.

Adam's head is still spinning, everything still feels so surreal, and he both wants (needs) to see Blake, make sure he's still _here_ , and doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to see the evidence of what happened, doesn't want to have to look at his friend like _that_.

Miranda is standing alone by a window in one corner, far away from everyone else. Adam wars with himself for only a moment before going to her.

He doesn't say anything, waits for her to speak first, because that's how it's always been between them—when it comes to Blake, she calls the shots, she gets to say what's allowed for him, how much of her husband he can have. Adam hates it, hates the feeling that he's always going to be desperate for more, but he'll take what he can get and be grateful for it.

Finally, she holds out a hand, and Adam looks down. There's an envelope, and she stands there, motionless, holding it out to him patiently, waiting for him to take it. Finally, he does, although she doesn't immediately let go.

“You should go to the ranch,” she says, “before you read that.”

“Why?” he asks. “What is it?” Miranda shakes her head, and then she's digging in her purse, her keys jingling as she pulls them into her hand.

“I'll drive,” she says instead of answering, and Adam nods slowly.

“Blake will—we can come back later?” Miranda meets his eyes, then, because she gets what he's asking, knows he's trying to say that if Blake might die in the next few hours he wants to see him at least one more time. She nods, a jerky, tense motion, and Adam has to try so fucking hard not to just crumple to the ground in relief.

“We'll come in the morning,” she says. “The doctors aren't going to let more than one of us in at a time until then, anyway. I told Dorthy and Endy they could have the night shift.”

Adam nods slowly and follows her out, climbs up into her truck without a word, clutching that envelope like it's got the secret to life inside it.

They get to the ranch and Miranda grabs a bottle of Bacardi and the bottle of tequila that he knows neither she or Blake ever actually drinks, they just keep it there for him and Endy, and she shoves it at him unceremoniously.

“I'm going to bed,” she says, voice rough, eyes harboring some defensive, wounded expression that doesn't quite make sense to him. “You remember where the guest room is?” He nods in confirmation, frowning, and then she's storming off with her bottle, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

Adam takes his tequila and the envelope and heads for the guest bedroom, wondering what it could be that would've upset the iron-willed Miranda Lambert.

And then, reading it--

If Adam thought that that Call in Munich had turned his world upside down, then the Letter inside of that envelope nearly demolished it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Miranda is waiting in the living room for him when Adam finally crawls out of bed. He didn't sleep very much, waking up every now and then out of a fitful sleep to make sure that he hadn't missed Miranda yelling for him, telling him something went wrong, to make sure that the hospital hadn't called, to make sure that the horrible pictures in his head of his dead friend were just dreams, just nightmares.

Adam emerges with a pounding head, courtesy of his raging hangover, the bottle of tequila now missing a large portion of its former contents. He managed to shower and tug on some clean clothes before shuffling out into the living room where Miranda was on her phone, tapping away at it furiously. As he approaches, feeling infinitely more awkward than he had the night before (more vulnerable, more wary), she glances up at him briefly before taking a moment to throw a pair of sunglasses at him.

He murmurs his thanks and rocks back on his heels, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans while he waits for Miranda to finish whatever it is she's doing. When she's finished, all she does is stare at him for a long moment, her gaze hard and furious, and Adam knows it's probably at least partly at him as well as Blake.

“Did you wanna get going?” Adam asks, because he doesn't know what else to say. Blake's—the Letter had asked them to take care of each other (“if you can find it in yourselves to be there for each other and be nice about it,” Blake had said, and Adam had almost laughed at that, but he had already been too busy crying and trying not to scream), but Adam doesn't know how to do that, doesn't even know how to talk to her.

“I just sent a statement to Blake's publicist,” Miranda tells him after a long moment, not deigning to answer his question after all. “Not like I could keep it a secret forever.”

“What—what'd you actually tell them?” Adam asks slowly, and Miranda snorts dubiously.

“As if I was going to tell him the whole truth,” she says. “When Blake's back on his feet and back to being _himself_ again, I'm sure he'll appreciate not having it smeared everywhere. I just said it was a car accident. They'll focus on Richie, not on him.”

Adam feels that same churn and clench and roil in his stomach at the mention of Blake's older brother, recalling another piece of the words Blake wrote to him: _I promised Richie, y'know?_ He just nods.

Silence descends again, and Adam hates how this always happens between them whenever Blake is unavailable to act as their buffer, to provide common ground and conversation. He clears his throat, and the sound is ridiculously loud in the quiet.

“How many did he write?” Adam asks.

“Just two,” she says slowly. “That's it—one for me, and the one I gave you.”

“Did you—do you know what he said, to me?” Adam tries to look casual, but he knows his relief is plainly shown with the sagging of his shoulders, the tension going out of him, for the most part, when Miranda slowly shakes her head.

“No,” she answers. “It was meant for you. I wasn't about to read it.” There's another pause, and Miranda seems to be considering her words carefully, weighing them. “And I don't think I _want_ to know what he said.” She stands suddenly, and nods at him. “Let's go.”

* * *

 Blake looks—it's Bad. Adam was right, back in Munich, when he'd thought that, and it's only now, more than a whole day later, that he's getting the full picture, the full inventory of Blake's injuries: internal bleeding, broken ribs, one of which pierced his left lung and caused it to collapse, a compound fracture in his left leg, a severe concussion, a sprained wrist, and then there were all of the cuts and abrasions left littering his skin where the glass and the metal had rained down and, in one case, fucking _impaled_ his chest two inches deep. Blake had bruised organs, broken bones, and he'd nearly bled out before the doctors got him stable only two hours before Adam had gotten there.

And that—almost worse than the thought of Blake dying was the thought that Adam wouldn't have _been there_ , wouldn't have gotten to see him one last time, but—

That doesn't matter right now, Adam reminds himself sternly, because Blake is right here, in front of him—looking fragile, broken, and unnaturally still in the hospital bed, but _alive_ , still hanging on. Adam settles himself in to wait in one of the ridiculously uncomfortable plastic chairs next to the bed and settles in for the long haul.

Miranda... goes off somewhere. She had stared at him as he settled into his seat, and then shook her head and turned on her heel and left. Adam had let out a _huff_ as he watched her go—Blake deserves better than that from her, of all people.

He dozes on and off, shoots off texts to James and Jesse and Behati and thinks about whether or not he should call anyone else—if Miranda had still been around, had kept herself close by and convenient, Adam would've asked her (because nobody really got how important _The Voice_ was to Blake—to both of them, really, but especially to Blake—and Adam felt like they should know, felt like he should at least call Carson and Christina and Pharrell and Gwen and Usher and CeeLo) but when he emerged from the room to ask where they kept their coffee because he was still suffering from the hangover from hell, Miranda had been nowhere to be found and all Dorothy had to say was that she disappeared as soon as Adam went into Blake's room. Adam wasn't willing to leave Blake to find her, was barely able to leave long enough to get coffee before he started thinking and worrying and wondering and his heart started to pound and pulse irregularly and uncomfortably.

So he stays in his chair and tries to get a little more sleep and wonders when Blake is going to wake up, what he's going to say when he does, what Blake is going to want or expect _him_ to say.

* * *

Around one in the afternoon, Adam's stomach calms enough for him to think about eating and for his body to demand food so he sheepishly asks Blake's family if they'll find him something because he doesn't want to leave. Dorothy's expression is somewhere uncomfortable, between fond and sad and amused, and she and Endy go in search of something edible.

Endy's the one who heads back into the room, offering him a sandwich and a thermos full of soup and Adam thinks of that stupid Nissan commercial they did together and Blake's ridiculous plaid thermos (full of alcohol, secretly, not soup, not that it was really that much of a secret in the first place, but they liked to pretend sometimes), and Adam tries to ignore the flip and twist of his gut so that he can choke down the food he knows he needs.

He mutters a thank you to Endy without looking up, barely moving at all except to take the cling-wrapped sandwich from her. She doesn't leave, just leans against the wall next to the door, arms folded over her chest, and Adam remains quiet, waiting for her to speak first, doesn't want to give anything away.

“Miranda's acting weird.”

“I think she has a right,” Adam rebuts drily, and he wonders for only a split second if that came out too bitchy, because he needs to find a way to be on her side because that's what Blake wants from him, that's the best he can do right now, so he keeps eating, pretending he's calm, pretending everything's fine, but it's _hard_.

“You know what I mean,” Endy says, voice hard, lacking her usual easy tone, and he has to try so damn hard not to flinch at that alone. “Something's not right—she knows something she isn't saying.”

“What makes you think it has anything to do with Blake?” Adam queries, and he doesn't have to feign the exhaustion in his voice, that's real enough.

“We both know it does.”

“What makes you think I'm gonna tell you anything?” Adam finally asks, barely able to keep himself from barking out the question, and Endy blinks in surprise. He rushes to explain, “I just—yeah, Miranda knows something else. But if she thinks you guys should know, she'll tell you. It doesn't... it's not going to impact Blake getting better, you knowing or not. It's something between them.”

(And that's probably a lie, Adam thinks, because if Blake—if it was true, and it seemed like it was, that Blake did this to himself, that he did this on purpose, then that was going to impact him getting better a hell of a lot, and the definition of “better” had a long way to go.)

Endy's staring at him with pursed lips, obviously frustrated, but the fire's gone out of her and she sighs. “Fine. I'll trust the two of you with whatever little secret it is you've got, for now.” Adam has to bite down hard on a hysterical laugh, because this isn't a “little secret” they're keeping, it's pretty fucking huge.

“Thank you.”

* * *

 (They keep him sedated because of the pain he'd be feeling, and Blake doesn't wake up that day.)

* * *

 Adam decides on his own around dinnertime, sitting in his rental car in the parking lot of the diner Dorothy had dragged him to (“You've been sitting in there all day, Adam, and as sweet as that is, you need to take care of yourself, too.”), that he needs to call everyone from the show.

He starts with Carson.

“Hey, man! How's it going? I saw online that somebody saw you in an airport in Dallas when you were supposed to be in Germany,” Carson rambles, tone light and teasing and happy and Adam squeezes his eyes shut, the normalcy of it painful now, this new sense of _knowledge_ weighing heavily on him. “Have anything to do with a certain cowboy?”

“Yeah, actually,” Adam says, and his voice is shaking. He chokes, then, can't bring himself to say anything more, and then sighs roughly, trying to get the words out, but he _can't_ \--

“Adam?” Carson asks, sobering. “What happened?”

“Miranda called, when I was in Germany, and I had to cancel the show and take off because—there was—Blake's car crashed,” Adam stutters, because that's the most truthful and yet least revealing way he can think to say it, awkward a phrase as it is. “It looks like he'll make it, but it's—Bad.”

“Jesus,” breathes Carson. “Is everyone else okay?”

“Shaken up, worried, but yeah,” Adam confirms. “He was driving alone, and he didn't hit anybody.” He wrapped his truck around a tree at about twenty over the speed limit on that little two-lane highway, Adam learned earlier. “It wasn't far from where his brother crashed, either, so his mom and his sister are a little freaked.”

“Damn. Do you—need anything?” Carson asks. “I could come out, if you need me to.”

“Thanks, but—we have a feeling there's gonna be enough people swarming Tishomingo when they announce it tomorrow,” Adam says slowly. “And Blake's not even awake, yet. They're—he's sedated, because of the pain.”

“Oh. I... was he drinking?” Carson asks, and he sounds sad but not accusatory, and that's the only reason Adam doesn't immediately tear into him for it—he knows Carson is genuinely worried about that. “I started to wonder, maybe, if it was getting out of hand when he ended up drunk on TMZ.”

“I have no idea,” Adam sighs, running his free hand through his hair, leaning his head back against the headrest. “I hope not. That's something to worry about later, though—for now, I'm just glad he's alive.”

“Me too,” Carson says. “Let me know when you hear something new, okay?”

“Will do,” Adam promises.

He takes a deep breath and prepares to do it all over again, dialing Christina next. She doesn't pick up, and neither does Pharrell, but he leaves them both a message that he hopes doesn't sound frantic, because technically, he shouldn't be worried about whether or not Blake's going to die anymore (even though he is, and it's starting to have less and less to do with the “accident”).

Adam knows it's super fucking late in Spain, so he doesn't call Shakira, just sends her a quick email that he needs to talk to her when she gets the chance, and he sends an identical email to Gwen because he doesn't know where she is and doesn't want to wake her if it's somewhere in some crazy different time zone, and then he's calling Usher. Voicemail again.

Okay, so, time for CeeLo.

And Adam's been dreading this ever since he made the decision to call all the other coaches because something about CeeLo has always wrenched pure and utter honesty out of Adam and he doesn't know if he can keep this secret from him, doesn't know if he can talk to the other man without breaking down and finally crying the way he's wanted to since calling Carson, but--

CeeLo picks up. “Hey, brother. How's it going?”

“Not great.”

“I'm real sorry to hear that,” CeeLo says, tone sympathetic and probing, inviting Adam to give him more details but not pushing, just ready to be there for him if he needs it (and he does, he needs _someone_ but after reading that Letter Adam really doesn't want to talk to Behati about it).

“Yeah. Blake was—he crashed is car. It was pretty bad, but it looks like he'll make it, and... I don't know,” Adam says in a rush.

“Damn, man, that's awful,” CeeLo answers in that gravelly, emphatic way of his. “Are you okay?”

“I'm—I don't know,” Adam repeats. “Maybe? I'm... confused.” He pauses, and CeeLo lets him, doesn't try to fill up the quiet with chatter or platitudes the way other people would, just gives Adam time to gather his thoughts. “When I first got here, Miranda—you'll keep this secret?”

“If you need me to, brother.”

“Okay. Thank you. I... so when I first got here, Miranda gave me this thing Blake wrote. This Letter.” Another pause, and Adam leans forward to rest his forehead on the top of the steering wheel, bouncing his left leg up and down rapidly, trying not to cry, at least not until he's gotten out the words he needs to say (and he knew, he fucking _knew_ that he was going to break, knew he was going to tell CeeLo the instant he heard his friend's voice). “It was pretty much... it sounded like a note. Like one of _those_ notes. She had one, too, and—I'm not sure crashing his car was what he _meant_ to do, but he meant to do _something—_ his pistol, the 1911, was in the cab with him. I can't—he doesn't carry that with him, not usually, he keeps it at home, just in case. I don't know why he would've had it.”

CeeLo himself is silent for a long moment before replying. “That's rough. You said he'll make it?”

“He should, now,” Adam answers.

“Then there's time,” CeeLo assures him, and this, _this_ is why Adam wanted to tell him, because he wanted that validation, that reassurance that everything's going to work out okay in the end, somehow, even though it seems impossible in the moment. “We have time to make sure he'll _really_ be okay.  We'll be there for him, to make sure.”

“Yeah,” Adam sighs, and even though he's still choked up, still on the edge of bawling, he feels better. Not hopeful, but not _hopeless_. “Why would be—why would he want to do that?”

“I don't know,” CeeLo says honestly, voice sad and gentle and dripping with empathy. “I've never understood those feelings, personally—I've never been throught that. But we'll help him get out of whatever hole he feels like he's in.”

“Yeah,” Adam repeats in agreement, and then tilts his head back, runs a hand roughly through his hair. “He's in love with me.”

“Yeah,” agrees CeeLo, and Adam actually laughs at that, confused.

“You knew?”

“We all knew,” CeeLo tells him, again so fucking gentle that even though he's telling Adam he's oblivious, it barely hurts. “We could all see it. But time was never right for you guys.” And okay, CeeLo is definitely making some assumptions, thinking that Adam loves Blake back, but he's not _wrong_ , so he's not going to call him on it.

“I think he's wanted to—hurt himself for a long time.” He's skipping from topic to topic, he knows, and it may not make much sense, but Adam can barely _think_ let alone talk. “In the Letter—the... _note—_ he said something about how he promised his brother, and it kept him around.”

“If that's what's been going on, man, then—that's really admirable,” CeeLo says slowly, and Adam frowns, waiting for him to explain. “Fighting against something so dark and so consuming for so many years? That's real strength, real guts, no matter why he fought.”

“Yeah,” Adam says again slowly, nodding to himself, picking at a hole forming (naturally, for once) in his jeans. “I hadn't thought about it like that. I'm really glad I called you.”

“I'm glad you did, too. If you need anything, or if he needs anything, I'm right here,” CeeLo tells him. “You just call me and I'll be there for you, alright?”

“Thank you.”

“Always, man,” CeeLo promises, and Adam lets out a watery grin. “And Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“It'll be alright, brother. We'll figure it out. Just remember that. It'll all work out.”

* * *

  _Adam--_

_I've already written and re-written this three times, so I guess the fourth time is gonna have to be the charm._

_I really don't know how I could possibly say everything that I need to tell you, that I need you to know, and—hell, maybe I'm just being selfish, wanting to tell you, making sure you know, what you've done for me and what you meant._

_You and Miranda—y'all act like I'm blind or something, but I've always been able to see the tug-of-war you two do. I hate how the most important people in my life, the two I love the most, don't or can't or won't, I don't know—I just hate how y'all are so afraid of each other that you never see how great you both are._

_Miranda—I love her. But you know that, you have eyes in your head to see how I feel about her. And I—really, though, as much as I love her, I can't—it isn't enough. I'm not enough, or we're not enough, or—I don't know how to explain it. But I have this amazing thing in my life to—that I should be able to hold onto, to hold on for, and I can't, anymore._

_~~Sometimes, I think maybe if I had you, then~~ \-- Sorry. That isn't fair, not when—doesn't matter. Nevermind, I'll talk about something else._

_I promised Richie, y'know? That's—it kept me going for a lot of years that maybe I wouldn't have stuck around for otherwise. I'm so glad, in away, that I did, 'cause otherwise I would've never met you or Miranda, or had the life I did._

_But still, it makes me feel guiltier, knowing how I'm gonna break my promise, letting go. But I just—can't anymore. I hope you understand, at least eventually._

_And I know I said I wouldn't talk about this anymore, but—you never did, and I know you never would've, but if you had asked me to choose, y'know, between you and Miranda—I would've picked you._

_Dammit, I really shouldn't tell you that, but I'm not rewriting this again, and I really wanted you to know that that's how I feel. Felt. Whatever._

_So, I'm just—sorry. If you and Miranda can find it in yourselves to be there for each other, and be nice about it, then please, do that. If not—well, I don't blame y'all, just myself._

_I love you, Adam, like crazy. If nothing else, you have to know that.  And_ _I really am sorry._

_Blake_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lied, and the Letter was actually there in this chapter. I just couldn't make you wait, that'd be too mean.
> 
> Blake's gonna wake up soon. Wonder how that's gonna go (hint: not well).


	3. Chapter 3

Pharrell calls Adam back first, about fifteen minutes after the press conference aired where Blake's publicist announced the accident. Adam's phone is already blowing up with Tweet alerts and text messages when Pharrell calls, and he almost ignores it, but a glance at the display has him fumbling for it quickly.

“Hey,” he answers lamely, staring at Blake. He's been at the hospital since early that morning (and he _still_ hadn't seen Miranda the night before, with her having gone to bed before he'd gotten back to the ranch), sitting by Blake (who hasn't woken up, but the doctors kept saying “anytime now”).

“Hey, Adam,” Pharrell says, and his tone is still that friendly, jovial tone, but tinged now with concern and sadness. “I saw the press release—how's everything going? I'm assuming you're there.”

“Yeah, I am,” Adam confirms, then shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “He's—not okay, yet. He should be, they said. Now the doctors are mainly worried about the concussion, but even that isn't _too_ bad, they said. It's just—everything, together, is a lot.”

“That's good to hear, though, that he'll be alright. I was really worried, when I got your message, and that was right before the press release,” Pharrell continues. “Is there anything I can do? For him, for you, for Miranda?”

“I—not really, right now,” Adam tells him. “I'll let you know?”

“Please do,” Pharrell asks, and it's so fucking heart-felt that Adam can hardly stand it. “I'm sending up good thoughts for him.”

“Thanks. It's—we really do need that right now.” And his voice finally breaks, his eyes burning with unshed tears, because Pharrell has no idea how badly they need that positive energy, how much _Blake_ needs it.

“Absolutely, anything I can do to help.”

“And—could you maybe talk to Christina?” he asks. “I left her a message, too, and she needs to know, but—that might be a little... much, right now.”

“Of course,” Pharrell agrees quickly. “She can definitely get a little overwhelming sometimes.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“I mean it, Adam—anything you guys need,” Pharrell says, earnest and hopeful, and Adam smiles a little despite himself—this is why Blake loves the show so much, the friends they make.

“I'll let you know. Thanks again.”

* * *

 

Adam gets a solid hour of sleep after Pharrell calls, resting his upper body on Blake's bed, his head pillowed in his arms, before he's woken up again—this time by Blake shifting.

“Blake?” Adam says, struggling to keep his voice level and soothing, rushing to hit the call button. Blake's started shaking his head, trying to blink his eyes open, drag himself up from sleep, a confused, pained grimace fixed on his features. “Blake, it's okay, it's okay.”

He groans, and then his eyes are open and fixing on Adam—he looks... not aware, exactly, but he's definitely processing Adam's presence, and he tries to smile, but has no idea how well he succeeds. Blake's brown is furrowed, his gaze glassy but aware, and Adam rubs one hand up and down his forearm.

“Ad'm?” Blake croaks, voice rough and Adam has to squeeze his eyes shut not to cry when he hears the pain in Blake's voice. “Wha? Where--?”

“Tishomingo Mercy,” Adam tells him. “You were... your truck hit a tree. Do you remember that?” Something like memory, like knowing, flashes across Blake's face before his expression settles on guilt.

“'m s'rry,” Blake slurs, and Adam shakes his head.

“Not right now, okay? Just—focus on getting better.” He cuts himself off as a doctor and nurse file into the room, and stands up and heads outside to let Dorothy know he's awake.

* * *

 

Adam is shaking like a leaf the next time he heads into Blake's room. Dorothy had been sitting with him until close to dinnertime, reporting to Adam that Blake had been in and out of sleep, half-delirious from the amount of painkillers the doctors had been pumping into him. When she left to head home to sleep, Adam took up his vigil again.

The next time Blake wakes up, Adam's ready for it. He manages a real smile this time, squeezing Blake's hand. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How you feeling?” Adam asks, and Blake shrugs.

“Drugged,” Blake answers, drawing a small chuckle out of Adam. “Ad'm--” He stops short, looking unsure of himself, looking guilty, looking sad.

“I got your... note,” Adam says slowly, his smile fading away. “It... why didn't you ever say anything?”

“'bout?”

“All of it.” He gestures expansively, frustrated. “How you feel—how... I don't—you said Richie...?”

“Told 'm I wouldn'.” Blake shrugs again, a loose yet jerky motion, drugged as he is. Without thinking, Adam squeezes Blake's hand, stilling him again before stroking over the skin with his thumb slowly.

“You've—you felt like this for that long?”

“Mm.” Blake hums in confirmation, but he's staring down at their joined hands, a small, pleased grin on his face. “Love you.” Adam chokes, then, on a sob, thankfully quiet enough that Blake doesn't hear, doesn't notice.

“You too,” he says.

“Nah,” Blake slurs, meeting his eyes again, a little sadness and a lot of longing shining through. “Not like I love you.”

He's asleep again before Adam can reply, before Adam can even think of what to say in return.

* * *

Miranda shows up late that night and silently tells Adam to get lost with a single _look_. He goes without protest, too emotionally wrung out to argue. He doesn't ask where she's been, and he doesn't think he would have even if they were friends.

He heads back to the ranch, grabbing the bottle of tequila as he heads for the guest room he's taken over. Adam spends the next half an hour staring at his phone, taking shot after shot, before finally working up the nerve to dial.

“Babe!” Behati greets him, voice warm but worried. “I saw the news today.

“Yeah.”

“So he's gonna be okay?” she asks, and Adam feels a flash of guilt for not calling earlier, not telling her that as soon as he knew, and she's so fucking patient, so perfect.

“It looks like it,” Adam answers slowly, his words starting to slur together, and yeah, okay, he surpassed drunk a while ago and moved onto shit faced.

“Are you doing okay?” is all Bee has to say in the face of his obvious drunkenness. Adam laughs, verging on hysterical.

“I dunno,” he says, the same answer he gave CeeLo the day before. “Blake woke up today. They had him sedated, before.”

“That's good.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there something else going on, babe?” she asks gently, and Adam squeezes his eyes shut, puts the bottle down and shoves his hand in his pocket, clutching the folded note he's been carrying with him since reading it.

“Yeah.” She gives him a minute, and he takes a few shallow, choked breaths. “He was—Blake's accident.”

“Yeah?”

“It _was_  an accident, I think, but there was—he had his pistol with him. I'm pretty sure he was headed for the woods, to—so that Miranda wouldn't have to be the one to find him.” Behati sucks in a shocked breath, and then there's nothing but silence over the line. “He—left notes. One for Miranda. One for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What'd he say?”

“He said he loves me,” Adam answers bluntly, and then he laughs, a wild, hoarse sound. “Said I don't love 'im the way he loves me.”

There's another long pause before Bee says, “Do you?”

It's like a slap, that simple question, the weight of it, the implication that she knew, just like everyone else _except for him_ , and Adam chokes back a sob.

“I don't know,” he answers. “I don't know. I—maybe. I might.”

“Okay.”

“I—you don't hate me for it?” he asks, and Behati laughs, a light, comforting, familiar sound and Adam almost smiles despite himself at the noise.

“Of course not,” she assures him. “I've always thought there was something there, since I met you, since I saw you together.”

“But we're married.”

“So is he. I still love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“And you love him,” Behati says plainly, a statement of fact, her tone holding not even the faintest trace of judgment or resentment or anything else Adam had been afraid of hearing from her when they had this conversation.

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Mm-mm.”

“You need to.”

“I know, but I don't feel like I have an answer. I don't know what I feel.”

“You'll figure it out, hon,” she says, and she sounds a little sad, then, and also like she's humoring him, like she already knows the answer he's trying so hard to puzzle out for himself, but she's been so understanding, taking all of this so well that Adam can't find it within himself to be angry with her for it.

“Yeah. But—what about...?”

“Us?”

“Yeah.”

“We'll figure that out, too.” Behati sounds so assured, so unafraid, that Adam wonders for a moment what she expects the outcome of this fucking mess to be.

“Even if—we're okay, Blake still has 'Ran,” Adam slurs, so drunk now that her nickname tumbles from his lips before Adam can think on it.

“I know,” she says, “but that's on them to figure out, too.”

“He said he'd've picked me,” Adam tells her suddenly. “If I asked him. Between me and her.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“I wouldn't want him to have to pick, though,” Adam says. “ _I_ don't want to have to pick.”

“I know.”

“Do I?”

The silence this time is longer, and Adam knows the answer by the time she speaks. “We'll figure it out.”

“I love you,” Adam tells her, but it feels like goodbye.

“I love you, too. I'll call you.” She doesn't say when, though, and Adam knows what _her_ answer is, then.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, hon. I saw this coming, and chose to love you anyway,” Behati tells him. “I still do.”

“Okay. I love you, too.”

“You're gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, hon,” she says. “Go to bed.”

“'Kay.” Adam clenches his fist around Blake's crumpled note. “I really am sorry. And I love you.”  He doesn't get an answer, just a dial tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, but I felt like this was good ground to cover. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> Next, Blake is more lucid and it's time for several really awkward, painful conversations.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, just trying to get back into the swing of this fic.
> 
> There are more updates to "Do You Remember?" coming, mostly one-shots and prompt fills, but in the mean time, I'm still working on this, I promise.

Behati was right, and the following morning Adam wakes up with a hell of a hangover, his head pounding and his stomach churning. He manages to make it to the kitchen without incident, downing two glasses of water while he waits for the coffee maker to finish brewing. He groans, bending over to lean his forehead on the cool marble countertop, closing his eyes and trying to make the world stop stand still, stop spinning and sliding.

“Adam,” Miranda says from somewhere behind him, voice level, but it still sounds like a deafening roar to his overly sensitive ears, and he moans. “Hungover?” She lowers her voice to something bearable, just above a whisper, and Adam frowns, because he can hear some kind of... anxiety in her tone. He moans again in wordless confirmation, and she hums. “Yesterday was... hard.”

“Yeah.” His heart rate picks up—what does she know, what did Blake tell her? Does she know what (who) Blake would choose if Adam were sure enough (brave enough) to give him the choice?

“I... Adam, you know I care about Blake,” she starts to say, and Adam frowns, lifting his head and pouring his coffee without looking at her, because it's telling that she didn't say “love,” and he knows he wouldn't like what he'd see if he did look her in the eye. Instead, he responds with a grunt and a minute nod, all he can do without making his pounding head worse. “And I know you— _care_ about him, too.” This time, Adam flinches at her hesitation, the emphasis, because he realizes, he can feel, the accusation in her statement.

“'Course I do,” Adam says, careful to keep his voice level, staring down at his steaming coffee, avoiding looking at her.

“I just want to be sure that you'll be there for him,” Miranda tells him slowly, still holding something back, and a tight, hard pit of anxiety starts to form in Adam's stomach and he almost groans at how it exacerbates the nausea. “He's gonna need you.”

“'Course I will,” he assures her simply, shrugging one shoulder, then taking a swig of his too-hot coffee, not caring about burning his tongue, too desperate for the bracing, bitter liquid to wait.

“He told me he wants a divorce last night.” Adam chokes on his scalding drink, then, his eyes flying open and meeting hers, because he really wasn't expecting that, and, yeah, maybe it's selfish, or maybe it's just because he's panicking, but he wonders if it has something to do with him. “He said that it's not fair to me, being with him when he loves you more—don't look at me like that, of course I knew, everyone who's ever _met_ you two and has half a brain in their goddamn _head_ knew—and told me that he didn't ask before trying to... hurt himself because he wanted everything left to me, said I 'deserve' that much.”

It takes Adam a long moment to think of something, anything, to say to all of that, and he's pretty sure that half of the spinning the room is now doing is because he's in shock, not just because he drank way too much the night before. Finally, he clears his throat, tries and fails to look her in the eye again, and asks, “Are you gonna give it to him? The divorce?”

She shrugs. “At this point, I'll give him whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. I care about him that much.”

“That's...” He stops, doesn't know what else to say, and he shakes his head. “Thank you.” His voice comes out small, quiet, and genuine, and he sees her duck her head.

“Just don't abandon him,” she says, voice thick with emotion, yet tinged hard. “I know you still have Behati--” Adam almost, almost laughs at that, a little wild, a lot broken, but manages to just take another painful gulp of coffee instead, because after last night, he isn't sure, anymore, juts how true that is. “--and I don't... nobody expects you to leave her. Nobody even wants that, really, but... if she's not comfortable with how he feels, you're gonna have problems, because I'm not gonna let you drop Blake when it's too much for you. If you're gonna be there for him, you have to commit to it.”

“I know that,” Adam sighs, thinking that maybe he should be annoyed, but he's been thinking this, too, thinking about how he'll have to stop drinking so much when Blake's around again because Blake isn't allowed to drink right now, and he doesn't know how he's gonna deal, and that in itself worries him because that's a dangerous, slippery slope he's started on. “I just want him to get better. I'll do what I need to to help him do that.”

“Good,” Miranda says with a jerky nod, and then they just stand there, still and silent, in the middle of this surreal fucking situation in the middle of Blake's kitchen. “I'm not going to the hospital today.”

“Okay.”

“Tell Blake the papers will be ready by next week, please.”

“Okay.”

“And for God's sake, Adam, make up your mind how you feel about him before he asks you.”

* * *

 

Dorothy is there, beside Blake, chatting quietly with him about all the friends of his who'd called, and what she should say when she calls them back. Adam knocks quietly on the open door, alerting them to his presence, and Dorothy gives him a happy smile, genuinely pleased that Blake is awake and talking, and, thankfully, seems not to have had his brains scrambled by the crash.

“Do you want any help, calling people back?” Adam offers, knowing that Dorothy was only doing it because she'd offered to take over Blake's cell phone to call everyone back when the calls started rolling in after the press conference.

“No, thank you, sweetie,” she says, shaking her head. “I'll let you call everyone at the show, but I can handle everyone else. You just stay here and keep my boy company, alright? Miranda said she had a few legal things to take care of.” Dorothy's tone and expression don't change, don't waver, and Adam glances at Blake, who gives him a minute shake of his head—she doesn't know, yet, then. Adam just nods and tries to smile.

“Sure, of course,” Adam agrees easily.

“I'll be back to bring you both lunch,” she promises on her way out. “Something home-cooked, y'know—this hospital food is awful, and how they expect you to get better quick when you can't even get a decent meal is beyond me.” Adam's smile turns a little more genuine at Dorothy's stereotypical mothering, but he slumps forward in his seat when she leaves, and they're left alone.

“Miranda told you, then.”

“Yeah.”

“What'd she say?”

“Well, she wanted me to tell you that you'd have the papers to sign by next week,” Adam answers bluntly, and Blake just nods.

“I wasn't happy about askin', believe me.”

“You don't have to explain yourself, Blake,” Adam tells him wearily, shaking his head. _Not about_ _ **that**_ _, at least_. “It's your marriage, and I'm not gonna judge you.”

“Thanks,” Blake says, obviously relieved, and then they're lapsing back into awkward silence again, and Adam shifts uncomfortably, because it's literally never been this hard to talk to Blake before. “So, ah, did I say anythin' funny while you were here yesterday? I wasn't really with it yet.”

Adam stares him down, scrutinizing him carefully, looking for his tells, and yeah, Blake is definitely lying, and it's so fucking _sad_ , the way Blake feels like he has to give Adam an out, an option to pretend he'd never heard what Blake told him. Adam shakes his head slowly.

“I wasn't laughing.”

“No?”

“No.” Adam stands, and settles himself back down again on the foot of Blake's bed, resting one hand on his uninjured leg—the other already in a cast from his foot to just above his knee, and Adam grimaces at it briefly, wondering how badly it must itch already. “I don't... really know what to say about it. I don't know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say what you wanna say,” Blake tells him with a thoughtful frown, and Adam wants to stroke his thumb over that pained furrow in his brow—the drugs help, a lot, but they don't make the pain go away, just dim it down to a dull roar, the doctors said—but keeps his hands to himself.

“That's the problem,” Adam says. “I don't... really know what I wanna say. I don't know how I feel.”

“Okay,” Blake shrugs.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Blake confirms, giving him a half-smile—small, dampened by the pain and the haze of the drugs, but genuine—and a shrug. “It's enough for me that my babblin' while I was high as a kite didn't scare ya off.” Adam snorts at him.

“If you singing 'This Love' that first time around didn't do it, I'm really not sure there's _anything_ you could say to get rid of me,” he assures Blake, voice fond, but the flow of emotions over Blake's too-open countenance (courtesy of the painkillers, Adam knows) is like a punch in his gut—from amusement and satisfaction, Blake slides into sadness and longing again before he brightens again.

“Doctors said singin' would be good therapy for my lungs, in a few weeks,” Blake says. “You should start thinkin' up that duet you've always wanted to do with me.”

“Yeah?” Adam asks, trying not to look too hopeful—he has an odd kind of feeling, right now, that Blake would give him anything he wanted, anything he asked for, right now, and as much as Adam's always wanted to do a song with Blake, his friend's always resisted the idea, hemming and hawing and dragging his heels instead of rejecting the idea outright, but still.

“Yeah,” Blake confirms, giving him a half-smile that doesn't even nearly reach his eyes, thaw out the chill and the loneliness and the yearning there.

“I could come up with something by then,” Adam says slowly. “For now, though—I brought my movie collection.” He holds up his flash drive. “Now that you can't run away, I'm gonna make you watch _V for Vendetta_.”

* * *

 

Blake sleeps through half the movie, waking up every half-hour or so to ask Adam blearily what's been happening, but that's okay, because this is only the millionth time Adam's watched it, and he's only got half an eye on it anyway, the rest of his attention on the notepad in his lap where he's writing and crossing out potential lyrics.

And he never, _ever_ wants to show any of these rejected ideas to Blake, because they're full of anger and indecision and want and hopelessness and it's all directed at Blake, because it's just hitting Adam now, that he could have _lost Blake_ , that goddamn _bastard_ \--

The movie ends, and Adam puts on another— _Giant_ , this time, Blake'll like that when he wakes up—and throws the notepad to the side, wondering how the fuck he's going to have something ready in two weeks, pouting to himself because he's been wanting to sing with Blake for literally _years_ , and now that he's finally got his chance, he's left with nothing to say.

* * *

 

(Miranda's words come to him that night as he's in bed, trying to fall asleep sober for the first time in days, taunting him—about the conversation he had with Blake, left open-ended, with no resolution and no choice made, not by Adam, anyway—and about the goddamn song: _Make up your mind how you feel about him before he asks you_.

Only now, Adam gets, Blake's never going to ask, and that almost makes it worse.)

* * *

 

(Adam doesn't get much sleep that night.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget that I'm taking prompts, doesn't have to be related to this. I'm going to be posting a collection of my unfinished/short Shevine stuff, so I will add any prompt fills to that.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this fic.


End file.
